


Service Offered: Professional Third Wheel

by Kyele



Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Demisexual Richelieu, Demisexuality, Get Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 00:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4766336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Unwanted suitors? Not sure if you’re on a date? Too nice to turn him down? I can help! With nearly four years of experience sabotaging romantic encounters, I’m the uncomfortable silence you deserve… and now, I’m offering my services professionally. Bring me along as a platonic bufferzone on unwanted or ambiguous dates with suitors you’re not interested in but don’t know how to turn down. Guaranteed to kill the mood or your money back!</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Package deals: </i>
</p><p><i>•  The Priest: Why the heck would you bring your priest on a date?! I don’t know, and neither will your suitor! Obfuscate them into backing off. If that doesn’t work, I will recite dry Biblical passages until they are driven away by crushing boredom or fear of Hell.</i> </p><p>Richelieu has an unusual part-time job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Service Offered: Professional Third Wheel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Theonenamedafterahat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theonenamedafterahat/gifts).



> This is based on [that tumblr post](http://bean-about-town.tumblr.com/post/125692829748/service-offered-professional-third-wheel) about a Craiglist offer for a Professional Third Wheel. [Bean](http://bean-about-town.tumblr.com/) tagged me in it for a Richelieu/Treville fic. Shortly thereafter there was some [birthday-related angst](http://bean-about-town.tumblr.com/post/125832918988/its-my-sisters-12th-birthday-today-and-im#notes) in her corner of the world, so I started writing. A very merry unbirthday to you, dear.
> 
> My writing endeavors were made possible by the generous assistance of [Eridani](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eridani), who kindly shared her knowledge of modern French culture and helped me keep the characters in France where they belong, and [CelticAurora](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CelticAurora/pseuds/CelticAurora), who generously shared her experience of demisexuality with me to help me get Richelieu right. Thank you both so much :)

“I’ll be fine,” Richelieu says for the hundredth time. “I’ve been doing this for a while, remember?”

He’s halfway out the door, already dressed for tonight’s fake date, and he’d frankly hoped to make his escape _before_ his meddling friends (who do in fact exist, contrary to the allegations of numerous scorned would-be lovers, though sometimes even Richelieu doesn’t understand the difference between Boisrenard’s friendship and his enmity) had had the chance to offer any commentary. That plan is now a failure. But he still has hope that he’ll make it out without someone bringing up –

“No, you’ve been doing the _sassy gay friend_ and _imposing older brother_ for three years,” Jussac frets. “Not the priest. After the Halloween Incident – ”

 _Jussac 1, Hope 0._ “I thought we agreed never to mention The Incident again,” Richelieu says through gritted teeth.

Jussac throws his hands up in the air. If he’d put on an apron and coiffed his hair, he’d be the perfect stereotype of a post-WWII housewife, scandalized by his misbehaving children. “You drag yourself back here on the far side of midnight, absolutely _covered_ in orange paint – ”

“And glitter,” Boisrenard calls from the ratty brown suede couch in the living room.

“And smelling of elderberries,” Bernajoux adds, from next to Boisrenard.

Richelieu glares at them. It’s a thing of beauty, this glare, complete with lowering eyebrows and a subvocal growl that’s more felt than heard. He divides it equally among all three of his meddling friends-slash-roommates, making sure that they feel its full force, before opening his mouth again.

“I thought. We agreed. _Never_. To mention. The Incident. Again.” (Still through gritted teeth.)

“Well, when you come back murdered, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself!” Jussac says, with the fine disregard for reason and logic that is a hallmark of Friday evenings past 8pm in this household. (As the only one of the four of them with an actual, steady, nine-to-five job, Jussac is also the only one of them whose existential crises occur on anything like a schedule. The other three of them are more ad-hoc in their explosions.)

“He’s not going to come back murdered,” Bernajoux sighs. “I know de Foix. He’s a nice guy.”

“See? Bernajoux knows the client,” Richelieu says to Jussac, trying to shake the uncomfortable feeling that he’s explaining himself to his mother. “I wouldn’t even be _doing_ the priest if Bernajoux didn’t know the client.”

“You shouldn’t be doing this at all,” Jussac snaps. “It’s been three years, when are you going to let this joke job go?”

“When I get a fellowship that can actually pay my share of the rent,” Richelieu snaps back. Richelieu – like most of his fellow thésards – is unfunded and likely to stay that way until he graduates. (Next year, he swears.) Without living parents to throw cash into the pot or an inheritance that had been equal to anything more than burying them, Richelieu had been teaching classes for pennies before Boisrenard’s drunken epiphany had resulted in his current side business.

“And it’s not a joke job!” Boisrenard says, injured.

“ _You_ posted it on Craigslist _for_ Richelieu while we were drunk!” Jussac cries. “When we woke up the next morning the first thing you did was go to delete it!”

“Three years ago! And when I logged into the account it had already gotten seven replies!”

“Of which three were dick pics and two were spam!”

“And the remaining two were serious, and they paid, and here we are today,” Richelieu cuts in. “And you never seem to mind when I’m helping some kid come out to his parents or let his girlfriend down gently. It’s just the priest that gets you up in arms.”

“Halloween. Incident.” Jussac says, enunciating each word through – yes – gritted teeth.

“I will be fine,” Richelieu says as firmly as he can. “And if I don’t leave now, I will _also_ be late, which I’d like to avoid. So I will see you all _later_. Okay?”

Jussac throws up his hands and disappears into the kitchen, probably to root in the cabinets for unopened bottles of wine. Bernajoux and Boisrenard wave.

“Thanks for doing this,” Bernajoux says. “The universe owes de Foix a hand.”

“My pleasure,” Richelieu says. _And my bank account’s._

Not that he does it _just_ for the money. At least, not anymore. It had started out that way, sure. One night, after too much wine and too much whining on Richelieu’s part re: his empty bank account and emptier future employment prospects, Boisrenard had gone online and made the original Craigslist post advertising Richelieu’s services as a Professional Third Wheel (“Ask Me How I Can Help Make Your Annoying Swain Disappear!”) Richelieu had woken up the next morning with a splitting headache and two serious requests for his nonexistent services. And maybe it had been the hangover talking, or some stupid hind-brain male posturing thing that civilization hadn’t managed to completely beat out of humanity yet, but Richelieu had declared – against all reason, sense and logic – that he would accept the commissions.

Jussac had been convinced that Richelieu had been going to get murdered. Bernajoux had actually gone along as a _fourth_ wheel on most of Richelieu’s early engagements, just to make sure that none of Richelieu’s sick-of-love clients hadn’t turned out to be serial killers. But, one ‘date’ after another, Richelieu had found himself helping people who would otherwise be stuck in untenable positions. He’d started doing it for the money. He keeps doing it now because he wants to help, and he’s come to realize there are people out there who really needed him.

(The money doesn’t hurt either. Even if Boisrenard had tried to claim that Richelieu should pay him royalties as the ‘original creator’ of the idea. Which always takes Richelieu back to wondering why exactly he’s friends with Boisrenard in the first place.

 _He makes Bernajoux smile_ , Richelieu reminds himself.)

Richelieu turns up his collar and walks faster, pulling out his phone to double-check the directions and the time. He had _hoped_ to escape the house before his roommates had caught him, but he hadn’t banked on it to the extent of not building time into his schedule for Jussac to scold him. He’s still right on time. And it may be silly to be concerned about professionalism for a gig run through Craigslist and centered around driving off would-be suitors by being deliberately annoying, aggressive or inconvenient, but Richelieu still has standards. Besides, it’s too cold to be ambling along. Especially in the priest costume. Even under Richelieu’s coat, he shivers.

He’s just lucky moths hadn’t eaten a hole through anything critical while the costume had sat, unused, in the back of Richelieu’s wardrobe. To say the priest is one of his less popular services would be a massive understatement. Richelieu has been selling his services as a professional third wheel on Craigslist for nearly three years now, and he’d say he’s seen it all if it weren’t for the karmic retribution that would surely follow. In all of that time he’s performed the priest exactly twice. Once shortly after setting up shop, upon the request of someone who had been sure it was a joke but had turned out to actually need a companion for his cousin’s stepbrother’s bar mitzvah (his family hadn’t been very accepting of his conversion to Catholicism; Richelieu’s presence had not helped). The second time had resulted in the infamous Halloween Incident, about which the least said the better.

(Richelieu prefers not to think about The Incident at all ever, and would in fact just forget about it entirely, were it not for the fact that Jussac brings Said Incident up _every single time_ Richelieu has one of his fits of self-doubt and questions his life choices. Jussac is the self-appointed den mother of their foursome and thinks it’s his God-given duty to drag the rest of them kicking and screaming into adulthood whether they want to go or not. But, since he’s also the only roommate who remembers to pay the utility bill on time and keeps groceries in the fridge regardless of the cash flow situation of the other three, Richelieu, Bernajoux and Boisrenard have all tacitly agreed to put up with the mothering. Though Boisrenard is talking about getting Jussac a Mother’s Day card next year. Richelieu hasn’t yet decided if that will be hilarious or a good night to have a pressing engagement elsewhere.)

Jussac’s worry may be – _is_ – overblown, but the fact remains that the priest act seems to have some bad mojo attached, and Richelieu’s not immune to that. He probably would have turned this job down if it had just come in cold to his Craigslist inbox. But Henri de Foix had been hanging out at the right bars and making friends with the right people for the past few months now. Richelieu’s gained quite a reputation in Paris over the last three years, and the gay community is his most popular clientele. Given his own druthers, Richelieu would spend more time with books than with human beings, but Bernajoux and Boisrenard have been known to drag them all out to the gay clubs, even the straight-as-an-arrow Jussac (Bernajoux: “You’re the designated driver.” Jussac: “You don’t get _drunk on being gay!_ ” Boisrenard: “Say that _after_ you’ve been to the Moulin Rouge, darling.”)

 _And maybe Richelieu will finally find someone_ , had been the unspoken subtext of many of these evenings. It’s not just Jussac; Bernajoux and Boisrenard also make no secret of the fact that they view Richelieu’s empty love life as a problem they’re ordained to solve. Many’s the time Richelieu had been tempted to tell them he’s asexual and aromantic, just to close off the topic forever. But it wouldn’t work; they know better. The night their friendship had begun, back in university – on what would turn out to be the first of many drunken nights – they’d shared so many deep dark secrets that they’d woken up realizing they’d left each other no choice but to become best friends (or commit murder, but it’s so hard to hide bodies these days). Jussac had told them about his controlling parents and resulting struggles with depression and OCD, which, all joking aside, is why Richelieu probably won’t let Boisrenard give Jussac that Mother’s Day card after all. Boisrenard had been thrown out at age sixteen when his parents had caught him fooling around with another boy and taken up with some people who thankfully had fallen short of being outright pimps but who had not made sure Boisrenard had known his own worth. Bernajoux himself had lost his family young and bounced through the system. Some nights he just needs to sit in the center of the giant beanbag chair with the rest of his roommates piled around him until the sun comes up and they all need to pee. And Richelieu, young and melancholy and far, far too stupid to know any better, had told them about Jean.

It had been the best and worst decision of his life. The best, because friends like Jussac and Bernajoux and Boisrenard are worth their weight in gold, and Richelieu isn’t blind to that fact. His life post-Jean and pre-university has been a solitary one. Richelieu’s not good at making friends and unfortunately good at making enemies, at least before he’d had Jussac to apologize for everything Richelieu’s done and a number of things he hasn’t but has agreed to take the blame for because Boisrenard needs to not be made to feel like a disappointment to his friends that day. As for finding a genuine emotional connection – forget it. Romantic or platonic, up until college, Jean had been it. So tripping and falling into three best friends and a share of the rent he can afford had been one of the best things that had ever happened to Richelieu.

And, yes, one of the worst. The first time the three of them had heard that Richelieu had never loved anyone like he’d loved the blue-eyed boy who’d watched him from the window of the truck until it had turned the corner and vanished forever, they’d commiserated. When they’d realized that it had extended to the point where Richelieu was uninterested in so much as a one-night stand, they’d swung straight past worried into action. Convinced that Richelieu just needed to Put Himself Out There and Try Again, Try Harder, they’d set him up on so many awkward almost-dates that Richelieu had been a past master of the art of deflecting unwanted suitors even _before_ opening his Craigslist business. That had been what had given Boisrenard the idea for Richelieu to go semi-professional in the first place.

But Richelieu’s roommates’ quixotic quest to help him find New Love hasn’t been without its benefits. Mingling with the communauté has helped business, certainly; word of mouth had gotten around rapidly that Richelieu’s service is reliable, gay-friendly, and 100% creepy-murderer free. Richelieu’s lost count of the number of stammering boys he’s helped out themselves to their parents or would-be girlfriends. He knows the _exact_ number of boys he’s helped pack up their belongings and move out under the eye of a fuming parent or now-ex-lover, often with one of Bernajoux or Boisrenard glowering impressively muscled backup over Richelieu’s shoulder.

As for de Foix, Richelieu had known of him, though they hadn’t yet crossed paths. It had cost Richelieu nothing to meet up with de Foix at one of BB’s usual evening haunts. And de Foix had been convincing about his need for help in general and the priest in particular.

“When chasing off straights, the sassy gay friend almost always works best,” Richelieu had explained.

“Then you should know that my would-be suitor is male,” de Foix had replied. “He’d take it as an opportunity to suggest a threesome.”

“Ah.” Richelieu had considered this new information. “I’m supposed to imply that you’re an uptight conservative Catholic.”

“That might be overselling it a bit, since he knows I’m gay. I was thinking I’d play the uptight conservative Catholic _family_ angle.”

“I’m the family priest?”

De Foix had nodded. “ _Grandmère_ found out about my life of sin and started getting you to spike my wheel whenever possible.”

Richelieu had reluctantly nodded. “I suppose I can work with that.”

Jussac still hadn’t liked it. But Jussac likes fewer than half of Richelieu’s life choices, so that’s something they’ve all just learned to live with. As long as BB are in agreement Richelieu figures he can’t go too terribly far afield. When it’s not about Richelieu’s love life, they’re actually pretty reliable guides.

He checks his phone again as he turns into de Foix’s street. The building he wants is an older one, but well-maintained, and the surrounding neighborhood looks nice, too. Not like Richelieu’s neighborhood of rambling old townhouses owned by absentee landlords and rented out by groups of starving students, artists and/or orphans trying to make ends meet. De Foix must have money. Lucky dog. Well, some of it’s coming home with Richelieu tonight. He smiles at the thought and jogs briskly up the three flights of stairs.

The knocker is old, brass by the looks of it, and makes a satisfying thunking sound when Richelieu applies himself to it. A curse is easily audible though the door. Richelieu waits patiently, listening to the second curse, several thumps, and finally the sound of footsteps.

“Good evening,” Richelieu says urbanely to the half-dressed man who opens the door.

“Hey.” Henri de Foix is probably around Richelieu’s age – though, since he lacks the prematurely grey hair (thanks, genetics) he _looks_ a good ten years younger. Henri is also wearing a button-down shirt, still unbuttoned, and a pair of boxers. Unnecessarily he adds, “I’m, uh, running a little behind. Sorry. Can you just… hang out? For a few minutes?”

“If you let me do it inside,” Richelieu says philosophically, watching his breath mist in the air.

“Oh, yeah, sure, of course.” De Foix steps back, letting Richelieu by him and then closing the door again to keep the warm air in. “Just – I’ll be right back.”

“Sure.” Richelieu leans against the wall of the small entryway and watches as de Foix retreats into what must be his bedroom. This happens most of the time; Richelieu makes a point of being prompt, but most of his clients either assume he’ll be late (and time matters accordingly) or just don’t care (and don’t time matters at all).

And as far as vestibules go, Richelieu’s waited in worse. This one is fairly nice, and more importantly, clean. Aside from its lack of seating, it’s well-furnished. Richelieu takes the opportunity to check his appearance again in the hallway mirror and adjusts his clerical collar slightly. He’s not usually this fidgety. But the priest service is unusual enough that it’s dialing up some of Richelieu’s usually well-hidden anxiety.

All three of Richelieu’s friends had advocated for Richelieu to remove the priest service from his Craigslist post completely after That Halloween. Richelieu had stubbornly refused. He can’t really explain why, even to himself. When pressed, he says that he doesn’t want his eventual doctorate in Religious Studies to be completely for naught, and leaves it at that.

His clerical collar is straight. Richelieu makes himself turn away from the mirror, but he can’t occupy his mind with three knick-knacks on the wall shelf and floral print wallpaper. His mind turns again to the role he’s assuming tonight.

“Am I a Bible-thumper?” he calls down the hallway to de Foix.

“Dry and sarcastic,” de Foix calls back. “Feel free to quote the bit about it being an abomination to lay with another man.”

“What about the one about lying with animals?”

“Perfect.”

Richelieu nods to himself, pulling his Bible out of his messenger bag ( _de rigueur_ for the modern priest, he’s been assured) and starting to thumb through it to make sure he still remembers were all the relevant passages are. The Bible is well-worn from being used as a textbook in many of Richelieu’s classes, which will come in handy in persuading de Foix’s would-be lover that Richelieu is an honest to God priest. He also has a similarly well-worn Talmud and Koran. Sometimes he considers branching out the religious services he offers. But the priest service itself is requested so rarely; what would the market even be like for a fake gay rabbi?

Which reminds him to check with de Foix one more time, just for safety’s sake: “You’re _sure_ you don’t want the sassy gay friend?”

“Positive,” de Foix says, emerging into the vestibule. “You good to go?”

Richelieu gives de Foix a quick once over. Pressed slacks and a button down shirt; nice, but low-key, not like he’s trying too hard. “Just one last question,” Richelieu says, unable to restrain his curiosity. “Why _aren’t_ you willing to date this guy?”

De Foix sighed. “It’s not him, it’s me,” he replies, grabbing his coat and shrugging it on.

“You realize that’s the most clichéd answer in the book.”

“So sue me; it’s the truth.” De Foix motions Richelieu out the door and turns to lock up behind them. He doesn’t say anything else until they’re out on the sidewalk heading downstreet.

“I just got out of another relationship,” de Foix says finally. “It ended kinda badly.”

“I see,” Richelieu says neutrally. He’s reminded of Bernajoux saying, earlier, _the universe owes de Foix a hand._

“It’s not that Belgard was a bad guy either – well – okay, actually he was kind of a jerk – ”

“Oh god, you were dating _Belgard_?” Suddenly it all makes sense.

“I – yes – you know him?”

Richelieu sighs. “Every gay man from here to Bordeaux knows Belgard.” To their eternal regret, usually.

“What?” De Foix comes to a sputtering halt; Richelieu, unconcerned, keeps walking. De Foix is forced to break into an undignified trot to catch up. “What do you mean every gay man – ”

“He’s fucked and dumped half of us, and the other half have had to pick up the pieces.”

De Foix gapes. Perhaps Richelieu’s being blunter than is strictly necessary, given de Foix’s reaction. But de Foix hadn’t had to keep Boisrenard supplied with Chunky Monkey and 80s sci-fi movies for the week after Belgard had blown through town. It had taken almost the full seven days before Boisrenard had so much as cracked a smile, and for someone as in love with his own jokes as Boisrenard, that had been saying a lot.

It’s an ill wind that blows no good at all, though. Bernajoux had been pining after Boisrenard for months before Belgard had made the scene. Boisrenard falling for Belgard’s oily charm had been what had forced Bernajoux to confront the reality that Boisrenard wouldn’t wait around forever (nor discern Bernajoux’s feelings by osmosis, as Jussac and Richelieu had been patiently attempting to explain). Neither Bernajoux nor Boisrenard had ever shared the details of their mutual clue discovery with Richelieu or Jussac, but they are now so sappy together that the other two members of the foursome often fear diabetes.

Still, it will be a cold day in hell before Richelieu lets Belgard within ten meters of anyone he cares about. And he may not know de Foix that well, but he knows enough to know that de Foix doesn’t deserve Belgard.

De Foix lets another block go by before he speaks. “I didn’t know his history,” he says at last, in a quiet voice. “I thought – we were together for months.”

“I guarantee you he had at least one other piece on the side that entire time.”

“I know,” de Foix says quietly. “I found them in bed together.”

Condolence would sound formulaic and genuine commiseration is impossible with the newness of their acquaintance. Richelieu therefore says nothing, though he regrets that there’s nothing he can say. De Foix glances quickly at him, after a moment goes by with nothing further spoken, but glances away just as quickly. He too seems to understand that there’s simply nothing to be said.

They walk the rest of the way to the restaurant in silence.

* * *

The restaurant – Portofino – is one of the nicer ones in this part of Paris, and Richelieu knows from experience that the wine is excellent, assuming one has the wallet to stand it. He doesn’t – if he did, he wouldn’t still be working as a professional third wheel to make ends meet – but some of his previous employers have, and his meal is part of the payment for his services. That includes the wine.

It’s a Friday night so there’s live music. Richelieu and de Foix enter to the light strains of a Mozart concerto, played by a string quartet. Richelieu recognizes the violinist from the local conservatory. They do free-but-please-donate concerts quarterly to help fund their scholarships. Richelieu always goes, and offers his help setting up or breaking down to offset his lack of disposable income. Good music played well is a thing to celebrate in Richelieu’s book.

Portofino’s good location and gay-friendly atmosphere mean that Richelieu’s clients often choose it for their faux dates. For that matter, many of Paris’ gay couples come here with their _actual_ significant others. Richelieu’s never done so, though in his fantasies, after he meets Jean again, they come here together. But he’s been single for so long by now that Boisrenard had joked that Richelieu may as well have been an _actual_ priest.

That particular joke hadn’t gone over well. Nor had the quiet, painfully earnest follow-up conversation with Jussac and Bernajoux, who had staged a well-meant and excruciating intervention with Richelieu two nights later, on the grounds that the previous two full days of moping had called for action.

That had been a year ago, but Richelieu can still see it if he closes his eyes and lets his mind drift. Their ancient kitchen with its peeling black-and-white linoleum. Bernajoux and Jussac sitting across the green Formica table from Richelieu, while Boisrenard had hovered apologetically in the doorway, half in the kitchen and half in the living room, like a puppy who knows he shouldn’t but wants to anyway. The bottle of wine they’d brought with them, as if a few glasses were somehow going to make that conversation go any more smoothly.

The usual platitudes: _We’re worried about you. We’re your friends. We just want to see you happy._

The usual responses. _I’m fine. Being uninterested in dating doesn’t make me damaged. I am happy._

Finally, frustrated, Jussac had said it. _You can’t keep pining over the one who got away. The little neighbor boy who rode away on the moving truck while the sad violins played – he’s never going to come back into your life. You know that, right? Right? Richelieu? Are you listening to me?_

“Richelieu?” de Foix prompts him.

Richelieu comes back to himself with a start. An earnest young waiter is holding out his hand for Richelieu’s coat, vague awkwardness starting to seep into his expression. Richelieu hastily manufactures a smile and hands the coat over, with a little shrug to smooth over the awkwardness. The waiter gratefully vanishes, and Richelieu leads the way deeper into the restaurant, grateful when de Foix doesn’t ask about Richelieu’s temporary moment of introspection.

Richelieu has been to Portofino often enough to know the maître d’ and most of the wait staff by name, and all of the tricks behind making the experience as enjoyable – or as excruciating – as can be. If this were a joyous occasion, like the celebratory _hooray you can see lightning and hear thunder_ dinner Richelieu and Jussac had treated Bernajoux and Boisrenard to on the occasion of their finally getting together, Richelieu would have a quiet word with Bonacieux (the maître d’) to get de Foix and himself a table by the picture window overlooking the harbor. They’d be close enough to the music to enjoy it but not so close that they’d have to raise their voices to converse. Conveniently located near enough the wait stand that getting their waiter’s attention would be easy; not so near that they’d be constantly interrupted. But since this is a breakup waiting to happen, Richelieu just shakes his head slightly when Bonacieux’s gaze catches his. Bonacieux inclines his head slightly in acknowledgement and sends he and de Foix over to a table against the restaurant’s inner wall instead.

“We beat him here,” de Foix says unnecessarily. The table they’re led to is set for four. The waiter (Jacques) whisks the extra place setting away, sets menus out, and asks if they’d like anything to drink while they wait. De Foix orders wine and appetizers.

Jacques vanishes. Richelieu extracts his Bible from his messenger bag and sets it on the table briskly. He opens it to Leviticus.

“All right. We’ll say that you were here waiting alone, and I came over and sat down uninvited. I’m currently reading you a long diatribe on how disappointed you’re making your mother, and how this is not what your _grandmère_ taught you when you were just a little boy she dandled on her knee.”

“Better start then,” de Foix says in a strained voice, eyes fixed on the door. “He just walked in.”

Richelieu fixes a stern, disapproving look on his face. “This is why you haven’t come to Mass recently, isn’t it?” he demands. “Could I even give you the sacrament right now? When’s the last time you had confession?”

De Foix sighs in audible annoyance. “For God’s sake, Father Richelieu – ”

Richelieu’s expression morphs from disapproving to outright censorious. “Henri-Louis de Foix, don’t you _dare_ take the Lord’s name in vain in front of me! You’re still not too big to be spanked.”

“Henri,” a strangled-sounding voice cuts in. “Am I interrupting something?”

Richelieu turns around, ready to fix the unknown stranger with his most paternal and disapproving look, when every muscle in his body suddenly locks in place with sheer horror.

A far-too-familiar pair of blue eyes widen at him in return. “Armand?” de Foix’s would-be date squeaks.

Richelieu’s throat goes dry. _Jean_ , he mouths in shocked, voiceless reply.

Jean de Treville had grown up next door to Armand de Richelieu, starting from when Armand’s parents had moved into the neighborhood at age six and ending when Jean’s parents had moved _out_ at age thirteen. Given that their birthdays had fallen only three weeks apart, the boys had done everything from swim lessons to sixth grade together. Jean’s untimely departure from the neighborhood had been the only thing that had prevented them from doing anything together of a more, ahem, teenage nature. It hadn’t stopped Armand’s pubescent fantasies from starring Jean live and in living color. From his first furtive fumble in the middle of the night to first thing in the morning two days ago, Armand’s mental masturbation reel has always been an endless replay of broad shoulders, brown skin, and of course the aforementioned snapping blue eyes. Once or twice there have been others that Armand had been almost attracted to; not coincidentally, they’d all fit the physical profile. And even then, none of that nascent attraction had ever survived the substitute’s first words.

Ten years later, Jean’s finally grown into his limbs. Somewhere along the line he’s added muscle, which is just unfair, because Jean had been more than hot enough without it. Adding it puts Jean over the line into _Roman deity_. Armand has been imagining running into Jean again from the moment the moving van had pulled out of his driveway that last day. In his imagination, there’s been gleeful smiles, hot kisses, and even hotter sex. But with the way Jean looks now there’s no way he’d give Armand the time of day. De Foix stands a better chance; he’s broad-shouldered too, obviously in excellent shape –

And kicking Armand under the table. Armand blinks, disoriented. Why is de Foix kicking him?

He kicks de Foix in reply, then turns his attention back to Jean. Just in time to see Jean’s eyes widen and his face fall.

“Wow,” Jean says finally. “Uh. So you became a priest after all, huh?”

A metaphorical bolt of lightning strikes Armand. In its flash Armand suddenly remembers the entire setup: de Foix. Belgard. The date that isn’t supposed to be a date. Armand being hired to hijack said date. The priest’s collar. The Bible. Long youthful discussions about Armand and Jean’s possible future careers, in which Armand’s interest in religion and theology had always figured.

Oh _God_.

“You two know each other?” de Foix interrupts, looking horrified.

“Long time ago,” Jean says. He’s already backing away from the table, hands raised and apologetic expression firmly in place. “So. Small world, huh? Good to see you again. You’re looking well.”

This is almost certainly a lie. Armand would bet money that he’s pale as the tablecloth.

Jean is plowing on regardless, not allowing de Foix or Armand a chance to speak. “But I just remembered. I have to – I have to go. My, uh, my friend. Is sick. Bad timing. So sorry. Hope you two have fun.” By the time Jean gets to the end of this disjointed ramble, he’s nearly at the door of the restaurant. When he bumps into the doorknob, Jean gives Armand a brief stricken look, then turns and flees.

Only then does Armand realize he’s half out of his seat, one hand outstretched towards Jean, trying to get him to stay – and the other half is _resting on the Bible_ , fuck his life.

“Oookay,” de Foix says slowly. “On the plus side, wow, that worked out even better than I could have hoped. Thanks, Richelieu. So why do I have the feeling that that was just an utter disaster?”

Richelieu finds his voice and his bitterness in a single swoop. “Oh, you know, that was just Jean. The boy I’ve had a crush on my entire life. The one who made me realize I was gay. The one who moved away when I was thirteen who I then spent the next twenty years comparing everyone else to and never dating. The one Jussac keeps telling me I need to get over and stop moping about. You know. That Jean.”

“Oh.” De Foix nods, although this can’t have made very much sense to him. Richelieu’s friends will have no trouble understanding it when Richelieu pours out his soul to them later tonight. The drinking, Richelieu already knows, will be _epic_.

But de Foix is a good enough guy to say gamely, “I see. That Jean.”

Then his eyes widen and he sits up straight. “Holy fuck, wait a second, you’re _that_ Armand?”

Richelieu swivels his head around so fast he hears his neck pop. “What?”

“Jean, he’s – okay, so he and I met through this other guy Louis, and let me tell you, that guy loves his parties, okay? So we’d both be at Louis’ place, and there would be booze, and sometimes Jean would have a few too many – ”

“For the love of God, get to the point,” Richelieu hisses, too frayed in mind and soul to be polite.

“When Jean gets drunk he talks about you,” de Foix says, all in a rush. Then he pauses. “At least I think it must be you. Based on what you just said. He talks about his boyhood friend. The one his parents moved him away from? Because they found Jean’s sketchbook and he was drawing – never mind, let him tell you about that. Anyway. Armand’s a common name, I never thought of it when I hired you for this, but if you’re his Armand? He’s been pining after you for the last decade.”

“And now he thinks I’m a gay-hating celibate Catholic priest?” Richelieu cries, voice rising with each word.

De Foix suddenly finds the weave of the tablecloth fascinating. “Uh. Seems like.”

Richelieu shoves back from the table. “Oh my God. I – I have to – ”

“Look, we can fix this. I mean, I have his phone number and everything. Obviously. I can explain – ”

“Yeah. Yeah, I just – ” Richelieu feels dizzy.

De Foix obviously agrees, because he says, “You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“I need some fresh air.” Richelieu pushes himself to his feet. This might not be the wisest course of action; the room promptly spins in a circle around him.

“Jesus Christ. Sit down, will you? I’ll never be able to show my face in public again if word gets around that I was so steeped in gay sin that I made a Catholic priest pass out.”

“I need some fresh air,” Richelieu repeats. He stumbles towards to door. It probably looks like he’s drunk, which won’t do de Foix’s reputation any favors, but Richelieu is past caring about _that_.

Bonacieux attempts to come over to help Richelieu, probably figuring to call him a cab or something, but Richelieu waves him off. He wants to be alone. He wants to go stand in the alleyway and smoke a cigarette and have it rain on him while someone sings a sad song about his tragic loss. With strings. A violin solo. The violin is a good sad instrument. At least, according to Jussac.

The night is clear and free of itinerant singer-violinists. And Richelieu has never actually smoked, unfortunate hipster phase notwithstanding. That leaves him just standing on a street corner, squinting at the strings of lights that decorate every building and most of the foliage as well. Abruptly he realizes he’s left his coat back in Portofino. Richelieu scowls at the passing tourists and tucks his hands under his armpits, preparing to walk sulkily home, when he hears his name.

“Armand!”

Armand turns. Slouched against the wall in the alley that runs next to Portofino is Jean. And Jean, at least, has a cigarette.

“You smoke?” Armand blurts out without thinking. He cringes. The next thing he expects to see is Jean’s face contorted with anger, followed by an equally angry diatribe, concluded with a dramatic stomping-off.

Instead Jean laughs. “Trying to quit,” he says. “I guess I’m having a setback.”

Armand finds himself closing the distance between them, reaching out to pluck the cigarette from Jean’s fingers before his conscious mind catches up.

“Don’t,” Armand says, hardly even aware of the pleading note that comes into his voice.

“Why not?”

 _Because it makes you seem older. Because it makes you seem like someone else. Because smoking causes cancer and I don’t want you to die. Because_ – “I don’t think I’ll like the taste of it when I kiss you,” is what comes out of Armand’s mouth.

A smile starts to curl its way around Jean’s lips. “Are you going to kiss me?” He makes a show of looking Armand up and down. “I didn’t think priests were allowed to do that.”

Armand may have lived half his life apart from Jean, but it will take a lot longer than that before Armand forgets what it looks like when Jean teases him. The implications hit him all at once, and Armand’s jaw drops.

“You _knew_ I wasn’t a priest!”

Jean collapses into laughter. It takes a full minute – not that Armand’s counting – before Jean calms down enough to speak again. “Of course I knew,” he chuckles. “Armand, you spent the years between nine and thirteen checking out my ass at _least_ as often as I was checking out yours. No way you swore celibacy.”

“Oh thank God,” Armand says in a rush. He’s too relieved even to feel the sting to his pride that means he’s been made a fool of.

Then rationality rears its ugly head, and Armand frowns. “If you knew I wasn’t a priest, then why did you run out of Portofino like that?”

Jean sighs. “I thought you were with Henri.”

Henri – oh, right, de Foix.

“And that you were here to help him let me down gently,” Jean adds.

Armand coughs. “I _was_ here to help him let you down gently,” Armand admits. “But not because we’re together. It’s just – a thing I do.”

Jean’s eyes widen. “You’re – holy shit, you’re _Craigslist_ Armand?”

“I – yes.”

“Oh my god.” Jean doesn’t seem to know how to deal with this. “My childhood sweetheart is a minor celebrity.”

“I’m not a – did you say _childhood sweetheart_?”

“Focus, Armand. We’re talking about the part where you’re famous. I’ve been hearing about you secondhand for years without even knowing it was you! I could have found you years ago!”

“ _You’re_ talking about that. _I’m_ talking about the part where apparently I’m your childhood sweetheart.”

“You didn’t know?”

Armand gapes. Then he says, too eager and desperate to be subtle: “If I had known, do you think I would have let you leave without taking my virginity with you?”

Jean’s jaw drops. Armand fights a losing battle not to start edging away in pure, instinctive panic.

“No, no, come back,” Jean blurts out, sounding every bit as desperate as Armand himself. “Don’t go, please. I was going to kiss you. Can I kiss you? Please?”

Armand’s jaw works soundlessly. He wants to say _yes, please_ but no sound is coming out. None at all. He will deny to his dying day that that squeaking sound is being made by him, and murder anyone who dares tell Boisrenard, to hell with how hard it would be to hide the body.

“I’m sorry about the cigarette!” Jean adds hastily. He throws it down and grinds it out, barely smoked. “I’ll never touch them again, I swear, only please – ”

Words, Armand decides, are an utter failure. He solves the problem by lunging across the intervening distance and slamming his lips against Jean’s.

Having never actually lunged across anything to kiss anyone, and certainly not while standing in an alley beside an expensive Italian restaurant, Armand overdoes it quite a bit. Jean windmills back and smacks into the brick wall of the alley with rather more force than can be said to be romantic, and gasps for breath. Armand would be more than willing to offer some of his own, but kissing has to be put on hold while Jean reinflates his lungs.

“Sorry,” Armand says wretchedly. Jean’s never going to want to kiss him now.

“S’Okay,” Jean wheezes. He catches some air and manages to straighten. He even smiles. “I’ll never complain about you being enthusiastic about kissing me.”

“Oh.” Armand becomes aware that he’s grinning like a madman. He temporarily hunts for his dignity and then realizes he doesn’t care. “Good.”

“Armand?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not kissing me.”

It’s true. Armand rectifies this.

“Richelieu?”

Armand is kissing Jean. It occupies his entire attention, and therefore it takes him longer than it really should to realize that if he’s kissing Jean, and Jean’s kissing him, then Jean can’t be the one who’d spoken. Which means –

“Richelieu,” the voice says again. Now Armand can place the voice: de Foix. Who is standing at the mouth of the alley looking amused.

“Yes?” Armand manages, trying to figure out what on Earth de Foix could _possibly_ want right now.

“I’m heading out.” De Foix tosses something at him, which Richelieu catches instinctively. It’s his coat. “The maître d’ says, I quote, ‘Don’t worry about the appetizers; it will be worth it for the number of favors Boisrenard is about to owe me.’ Whatever that means.”

Armand winces. Bonacieux knows all of Armand’s roommates; by now, said roommates doubtless know everything.

“And, you know, it’s a free country, but you might think about the implications of making out in an alley while you’re still wearing a cassock,” de Foix adds.

Jean starts guiltily. Armand looks down at his own outfit and has to admit that de Foix has a point.

No. No, he doesn’t. There is no point here. No point except kissing Jean, which is more important than just about anything.

“Anyway, thanks again, and I think we can just call it even on your bill,” de Foix finishes. “I’m sure I’ll see you both around.”

He leaves. Armand moves to go back to kissing Jean, but is thwarted when Jean puts his fingers over Armand’s lips.

“He has a point about the cassock,” Jean murmurs.

“No he doesn’t,” Armand says mulishly, going in for the kiss again.

Jean thwarts him a second time. “My place isn’t far,” he says. “If now’s a good time?”

“A good time for what?” Armand says somewhat blankly. He thinks he can be forgiven: most of his blood has relocated from his brain for points distinctly further south.

Jean’s smile is as wickedly mischievous as it had been as age thirteen and in every one of Armand’s fantasies since. “Taking your virginity.”

“Oh _God_ yes _,_ ” Armand says faintly, dizzy with want. “It’s all yours.”

Jean blinks. “Wait, I – I just meant – ” He brings both of his hands up between them and pushes against Armand’s chest, gently, but firmly, putting a few more inches of space between them. “Armand. Are you actually a virgin?”

“Uh,” Armand says eloquently. He may be floating in the joyous fog of Jean’s kisses, but he’s not so punch-drunk he can’t sense the danger ahead. “I, uh. That is.”

Words, usually Armand’s friends, skitter away from him now like he’s trying to grasp raindrops. Which is a problem because Armand suddenly has a pressing need to explain. Yes, Armand is a virgin, but that’s not a _problem_. Not for Armand. And surely not for Jean, either. Maybe the average nearly-thirty gay man has had several partners. Maybe Jussac thinks Armand should see a doctor, try a pill; maybe Boisrenard can’t grasp that it turns Armand’s stomach to think of someone not-Jean touching him. Maybe Bernajoux doesn’t understand why Armand wouldn’t want to catch at all the forms of companionship available to a human being. But Jean – surely Jean, of all people, will understand why Armand’s simply never wanted anyone else but him.

But Jean’s look of eager anticipation is turning, slowly, to dismay.

Armand swallows, feeling even more of his joy ebb away. Shame rushes in to fill the hole left behind. For the first time he wishes he’d let Boisrenard set him up. Even just for a one-night stand, no matter how empty and dirty and squalid it had felt, if it would mean he didn’t still have this virginity that was apparently so awful to Jean.

“Okay,” Jean says carefully. “Okay, so, change of plans – ”

“No, no changing!” Armand cries. “Look, it’s fine. It’s not a big deal. It’s just a social construct anyway, okay, we’ll get rid of it – ”

“We’re not going to get rid of it!” Jean looks appalled. “Armand, I’m not going to – we just met! Again!”

Armand’s heart sinks. “Please forget about it,” he begs. His discarded pride curls up on itself, wounded. Armand ignores it ruthlessly.

Jean looks like he’s fighting with himself. Silently Armand tries to urge the side that’s pro-Armand onward to victory. God, if he’d known Jean would care so much about something stupid like sexual experience, he would have made sure to have some. It doesn’t seem fair to come so close and still be so far away from the only person Armand’s ever really wanted in the way the books and the songs and the movies all talk about.

“Coffee,” Jean says suddenly.

To say that this statement is unexpected and un-illuminating would be an understatement. “Coffee?” Armand repeats blankly.

“Yes. We’re going to get coffee, and we’re going to talk about this.”

Armand makes himself nod. This isn’t at all what he’d expected to have happen next. But Jean isn’t walking away, and that’s good enough for now.

* * *

“Did something happen to you after I left?”

Armand nearly chokes on his first mouthful of tea. Fortunately the place they’ve come to sells tea; some coffee shops don’t, pretentious fucks that they are, and Armand has never managed to train himself into liking the taste of coffee no matter how hard he’s tried. But the little coffee place jean had apparently known about three blocks over isn’t pretentious. It’s small, and cozy, and serves an excellent range of teas. It would be altogether charming if not for the occasion.

“Well, I grew up,” Armand says carefully. He’s not sure what Jean had meant by the question, so he sticks to the facts. “Graduated high school. Went to university. Decided to pursue a doctorate, the more fool I, I suppose. But I wanted to study theology and short of becoming a priest – ”

Jean holds up a hand. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, though he sounds relieved rather than annoyed. “I mean – with your love life. Was there a bad breakup? Someone broke your heart? Or – or something else?”

Armand catches Jean’s meaning all of a sudden, and his jaw drops open in horror. “Jean, I haven’t stayed away from sex because someone abused me!”

“Oh.” Jean seems to sag slightly. “Okay, that’s – that’s good.”

“Why would you even _think_ that?”

“I was worried about you!”

Jean’s voice rises somewhat more than is socially acceptable for a private conversation. The girl behind the counter looks over at them, then discovers a pressing need to disappear into the stockroom. They’re the only ones in the place anyway, and given the nonexistent foot traffic and the terrible signage, they’re likely to remain so.

“Well you don’t have to be,” Armand says when the echoes of Jean’s voice have faded from the air. Shame had had enough time to turn into anger and bitter hurt on the walk to the coffee shop. “There’s nothing wrong with me, thank you very much. I’m just different. If that’s a problem for you – ”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Jean snaps. He grips his coffee in what is very obviously a stand-in for his temper. “I just – was I wrong? To think you were interested in me all those years ago?”

“I kissed you in an alley half an hour ago,” Armand points out acerbically.

“Right. Right.” Jean rakes a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. “So you’re interested in sex. You’ve just – never?”

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Sex is awesome.”

Armand laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but there’s something about the way Jean says it – not earnest, not persuasive, not as if he’s presenting an argument but merely as if he’s stating a fact. An objective, incontrovertible fact of the universe. Sex is awesome.

“I’m glad that sex is awesome for you,” Armand says. Despite his best efforts, some bitterness creeps into his voice. “I haven’t seen the appeal.”

“Okay. So you don’t want to have sex.”

“I want to have sex _with you_ ,” Armand clarifies.

“But not with anyone else?”

“Haven’t yet.”

“Oh.” Now Jean blushes. Armand stares, riveted. He’s never seen Jean blush before. The lanky preteen hadn’t had that reflex. Does adult Jean blush often? It’s enchanting.

“Do you want to have sex with me? Even though I’m a virgin?” Armand prompts when it looks like Jean isn’t going to say anything else. He tries not to make it obvious that he’s holding his breath or hanging on Jean’s next words.

“Do I – of course I do!” Jean stares at him, aghast.

“Oh. Good. That’s good.” It’s not the most scintillating reply, but Armand is awash in relief.

“I don’t not want to have sex with you because you’re a virgin, idiot. But I’m not just going to fall into bed with you either.”

“Because – ”

“Yes, because you’re a virgin.”

“It’s really not that big a deal,” Armand tries again.

Jean holds up a hand. “It is to me,” he says firmly.

Armand doesn’t know what to say to that, so he settles for saying nothing.

Jean sighs. “If you haven’t wanted to have sex before now – look, I’m not saying I understand it, exactly, because I’ve never felt that way. I usually want to have sex. I’ve had a lot of sex, actually, I hope that won’t be a problem – ”

“Not at all,” Armand says truthfully.

“Okay, good.” Jean rakes his hand through his hair again. “But I have to trust that you have a good reason for not wanting to, and it’s on me to make sure that you don’t regret changing that policy.”

“Not so much a change,” Armand murmurs fondly. “I’ve wanted to have sex with you since I was eleven, remember?”

“And no one else?”

“And no one else.”

Jean blushes again. Armand instantly commits to memory everything he’s said and done in the last five minutes, so that he can examine it later to try and identify the blush trigger. He may have to try several experiments to see if he’s isolated it correctly. He can be methodical. Like Boisrenard’s chemistry experiments.

Maybe not like Boisrenard’s chemistry experiments.

Jean finds his voice. “Okay, you need to stop saying things like that, because that’s actually insanely romantic and I am trying really hard _not_ to have sex with you.”

“You really don’t have to try,” Armand tries to explain. “I am perfectly willing to have sex with you. Eager, even. And…” he shrugs. “I just don’t think virginity is anything special.”

“But you don’t know what you like or don’t like. If I jump into bed with you, there might be bad sex. I don’t want to have bad sex with you.” Jean smiles, some of his usual mischievous nature returning. “I want you to want to have sex with me _again_ , after all.”

“Oh!” Armand perks up. He tries to be stern with himself and strangle hope, but he can’t help repeating, “Again?”

Jean nods, resolute and determined. “Even if you weren’t a virgin – I was thinking with my dick, back at Portofino. But I want this to be more than just my dick. I want this to still be real tomorrow.” He’s starting to flounder. “I – I don’t want this to just be tonight. I want to wake up with you. I want to make you breakfast. I want to meet your roommates, Henri says they’re nuts, I – I want to be _with_ you, Armand. I don’t just want a one-night stand. Sure, I slept with a bunch of other people since my family moved away. I had a couple serious relationships too. And I want to have another one. With you.”

Armand finds, to his dismay, that he can’t make his throat open up long enough to say anything to this. But he can nod, and he can’t seem to stop smiling. He’s fairly sure the smile on his face could power the streetlights; he thinks it might even have been able to outshine the sun.

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Jean says. He sets his coffee aside and leans forward across the small table. “I’d like to kiss you now.”

Armand nearly knocks his teacup over getting it out of the way.

It’s as different from the kiss in the alleyway as it could possibly be. That had been frantic, rushed, hasty; two men trying to catch hold of a dream before it vanishes with the dawn. They’d been outside, cold, pressing close together to share body heat. They’d been drunk on surprise. They’d been eager.

This time it’s slow. Slow and deep. Jean kisses him like he’s trying to pour himself into Armand’s body through their locked lips; he kisses like he’s the last suitor in the world and Armand the last sweetheart.

“If you think I’m letting you go now you’re out of your mind,” Jean says after it ends.

“Same,” Armand manages.

“Then you’ll let me take it slow?” Jean makes a sweeping gesture, indicating the grand unknown of the future. “I’d like to buy you dinner. Neither of us got it earlier, but I hear that Portofino is a great place for a date.”

Armand has to laugh. He’s had God knows how many fake dates there. It seems only right to have his first real date there, too, though Bonacieux will gossip terribly.

“It’s a deal,” Armand says.

Armand had thought his smile had been bright; compared to Jean’s, it’s the dimly lit moon next to the brilliance of the sun.

“Then let’s go,” Jean says.

Armand puts his hand in Jean’s and lets himself be led.

* * *

(Boisrenard takes all the credit in his speech at their wedding. Bernajoux is too drunk to stop him. Jussac spends the entire time sobbing over his empty nest before being consoled by Jean’s friend Constance. De Foix acquires a legend as the man who’d helped the infamous Craigslist Third Wheel find True Love, and never has to buy a drink again. Jean’s four younger siblings behave as obnoxiously as possible. The oldest of them, Athos, makes a number of very loud, _very_ unsubtle jokes about shovels and backyards.

It’s perfect.)


End file.
